


no sweeter innocence than our gentle sin

by mistrali



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Hurt Crowley (Good Omens), Hurt/Comfort, Implied Torture, Injury, M/M, Mood Whiplash, POC Crowley, POC!Crowley, Physical hurt/comfort, Whump, Wounds, historical fic, mild body horror, preslash, wound care
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-01
Updated: 2019-07-18
Packaged: 2020-05-31 16:39:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,127
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19429951
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mistrali/pseuds/mistrali
Summary: It’s the 15th century, and Aziraphale comes across an injured Crowley.Title from Hozier.





	1. Chapter 1

_Chiaramonte Charterhouse, Italy, 1439, after Mass_

There was a thump. A hundred and fifty-four pounds of unconscious demon, complete with black doublet, landed in the middle of a knot of monks on a western cloister of the monastery. There were shocked exclamations; several monks muttered Hail Marys and crossed themselves. Others backed away, muttering about spirits and devils.

Had the demon been awake to hear, he would have been pleased at the furore he was causing.

******

It was sheer luck that Aziraphale was passing by at the time. Sheer luck, in fact, that he was in the country at all, since a quake had necessitated their travelling back from France three weeks early. Hearing the commotion, the angel started forward, and froze. It was Crowley, in the incarnation he’d had since the eighth century; Aziraphale would know the long, lean planes of that face anywhere.

The dark skin was pocked with burns — old ones, half-healed, and new wounds that wept pus and blood. He reeked of sulfur. The black hair, usually so sleek, was matted with filth, dead flies and encrusted ichor. To Aziraphale’s horror, there was blood leaking sluggishly from Crowley’s chest and soaking the doublet. The glasses were gone, too. 

“He needs the infirmarian,” Brother Guido was saying, gesticulating frantically to Brother Jacamelo to lift Crowley up.

“Wait! I - I know some herblore,” blurted Aziraphale, like a fool. It wasn’t entirely untrue, he did, but nothing like the kind he ought. He’d worked in a hospice a couple of centuries ago, but that had consisted of counselling, chaplaincy and end-of-life rites, with the occasional poultice. It was the demon, thought Aziraphale with a pang, who was the budding herbologist. Even if he did use his talents for demonic wiles.

“Brother Azarias,” rumbled Brother Guido, in his calm, cool voice. “This man needs medical care. Whatever herblore you know won’t be enough. Look at how badly he’s hurt.“

“Look, I know what I’m doing,” snapped Aziraphale without thinking, then regretted it as half a dozen monks turned to stare at him. Damn it, why had all this happened in such a public place? Every second Crowley lay there was a second too late. Was pretending to have a visitation from God a good idea? Perhaps not. That was a bridge too far, in his view, and would verge on blasphemy, not to mention leading to uncomfortable questions from Up There. Other angels had been recalled and interrogated for less. Healing a demon was a tremendous risk in itself.

He gathered all his courage and summoned a hint of angelic persuasion. Then he made them forget. As they drifted away in pairs, muttering vaguely, Aziraphale sighed with relief. That had been a close one - sometimes one or two of them hung around wondering what it was they couldn’t see. Especially if you were stressed.

God- S- whoever, what was he supposed to do? He hoped to Heaven that the burns were from hellfire (which would take longer to heal, but would eventually fade). He couldn’t heal burns from holy water any more than Crowley himself could - Crowley would bear the scars from them, vessel after vessel. And he couldn’t keep him here, like this, on display to any human who might walk past while Aziraphale was at service, at meals, or in his cell. The forgetting would only work as long as Aziraphale was there to keep it up.

For a second, he debated simply leaving the demon there, to be found or discorporated, then discarded the idea, disgusted at himself for even thinking it. This wasn’t 5000 BC anymore. He couldn’t pretend they were arch-nemeses and leave him to the tender mercies of Below. Not Crowley, never Crowley, who had been his only constant friend for the past three-and-a-half millennia.

He scooped Crowley up and extended his wings, then concentrated until he was in his own cell. Not the best refuge, but it would have to do. First he locked and barred the door. Then gently, gently he miracled Crowley onto the bed. Without a flicker of guilt at his extravagance, he changed it from a wooden pallet into a proper canopied bed, with three eiderdown pillows, fine cotton sheets and fur blankets. He would come up with a lie for Upstairs later.

Of course, his own cell was sparse, fit only for prayer and contemplation. He nipped into one of the guest rooms and helped himself to several small facecloths, two jugs of water, one dipper, and one drinking-cup, which he miracled half-full of brandy (surely a few drops of liquor would hardly register as a miracle on Heaven’s logbooks?). He badly wanted to take Crowley down to the baths, but he’d need yet another miracle to hoodwink the bath-attendant, and in any case, Crowley was in no fit state to be moved just yet.

He used some of the hot water to wash his hands, and left the rest on the hob, at a low simmer. The dried blood was easily cleaned away, and the wound beneath was shallower than Aziraphale had expected, but there was still a possibility of infection. Oh, hell, there was nothing for it. Closing his eyes, he sent Crowley into a deeper sleep. Then he summoned light to the wound, closing and cleansing it - an angelic cauterising. Above would have his hide for this, but at least they couldn’t tell who he’d been healing. With any luck, they’d assume it was Aziraphale’s own vessel.

Then Aziraphale opened his eyes - his angelic, not his mortal ones. He gasped when he saw the demon’s wings, which were charred and flaking, tattered almost beyond repair. Thank God - someone - that Crowley had landed on unconsecrated ground. If he’d materialised inside the chapel he would’ve been burned to death before he could wake. 

He didn’t dare miracle Crowley’s wings clean, not with enough sulphuric fumes rising off them to make Aziraphale feel ill. He had no idea how his friend’s wings would react even to ordinary water, and didn’t want to find out. He brushed the demon’s face with a wet cloth and then a brandy-soaked one, and flinched as Crowley cried out and shifted in his sleep. “It’s alright, dear,” he murmured, as much to reassure himself as anything. “Just disinfecting.”

He cleaned the rest of Crowley’s face as best he could, feeling as though a piece of his heart was being ripped out with every moan Crowley gave. 

At last Aziraphale kissed Crowley on the forehead (if it wasn’t quite in the cool, impersonal way he would have kissed any one of his fellow lay monks, well, no one was there to remark on it) and let him sleep.


	2. Chapter 2

_Seven weeks later_

When Crowley finally woke up, he woke screaming. Aziraphale jumped, startled out of his Chaucer (he was meant to be meditating, but he never could resist a good book). He marked the page and put it carefully aside.

“Go back to sleep, dear,” he murmured, kneeling at Crowley’s side. He itched to stroke the hair out of his face. “You were having a nightmare.”

Crowley sat up and winced, then looked around, yellow eyes luminous in the half-dark. “Angel. Nice to see you,” he began, in a voice like a rusted poker. “How long’s it been, five...” He trailed off in a fit of coughing.

Aziraphale gave him a cup of small beer, which he sipped at, snorted, and transformed into something Aziraphale was fairly sure was absinthe.

“Fuck,” Crowley hissed, as soon as he could speak again, “Wings — feel like someone’s taken a chakram to ’em. Take forever to grow back out. Wankers, the whole lot of them.”

“Language, dear boy,” said Aziraphale, without much conviction. After all, he rather agreed with the sentiment. “It’s... well, it’s good to see you too.” Now that Crowley was awake... well, humans were alright as these things went, but it got lonely, being the only celestial being for a few galaxies.

“A bit beyond the pale, all this, though, isn’t it?” Crowley gestured, with a sweep of his arm, around the room. His voice dripped with sarcasm. “Bringing a demon into a monastery. Collecting good deeds to show Upstairs, are you, angel?”

“I’ve taken my vows. And I’m sticking my neck out to heal you,” said Aziraphale indignantly, “in case you hadn’t noticed, you ungrateful wretch. Or do you suppose Dagon popped in for a visit and poulticed your burns for you?”

“Oh,” said Crowley, in an altogether different tone. “Right.“ He rubbed his hands over his face. “Sorry, ’Ziraphale. Been a long century.”

Aziraphale sighed. “You’ll be glad to know you scared some humans half to death. I suppose Below miracled you here expecting I’d finish the job. What the - what happened, Crowley?”

Crowley shook his head.  
“Performance review. Don’t worry yourself, angel, 's standard procedure Down There. I imagine your lot hand around biscotti and cups of tea while they have you... on babysitting duty, or whatever passes for an appraisal up there.”

Aziraphale gaped at him. “We don’t get biscotti,” he said faintly. “Or...” he shuddered. “Babysitting duty.” Unless you counted guardian angels, who had rather gone out of style these days. “But, Crowley, your _wings_. And your face. You’re not telling me _that’s_ standard procedure.”

Crowley’s grin was fanged.  
“Yeah, well. It was my own blessed fault for being so careless. Nearly got myself discorporated during the Crusades. I decided to be a bit more inventive and old Beezy wasn’t too pleased. Reckon she took it personally.” He paused. “I th- thought you might be in league with them, for a minute. Hastur said you were,” he said, in a colourless voice, and then began to shiver.

Aziraphale felt himself blaze.

“Hastur did this?” The words weren’t so much speech as _sound_. They bypassed Aziraphale’s vocal cords entirely and came out in a tide of flame that narrowly missed Crowley’s head and scorched half the bedstead and the adjacent wall.

He winced and miracled the wall clean; the last thing they needed was a fire. “They lie, Crowley. You know that,” he said, careful to speak in his mortal voice this time.

Crowley‘s eyes were blown wide, his fangs bared. “Why, angel,” he said, low and mocking, “if I’d known you _cared_...”

“Enough,” snapped Aziraphale. “Are we back to this?” Their mutual animosity had graded into grudging trust sometime around 2500 BC, then mellowed itself out.

“No,” whispered Crowley, in a voice that was dangerously close to breaking.

There was a long, uncomfortable silence.

“Look,” said Aziraphale eventually, relenting. “I’m sorry I was short with you. D’you feel like some breakfast? You can come down to the refectory with me.”

Crowley grimaced and rolled his eyes. Standing up, he stretched his arms, legs and back, the bones making little popping noises. “Satan, no. The refectory? Live a little, would you? What happened to all those taverns in Rome?”

“That was before I became a monk, Crowley,” said Aziraphale. “They have decent wines here, you know, not like the swill you get outside. Besides, I’m quite sure an alehouse counts as a den of iniquity.”

Crowley snorted. “And consorting with a demon’s, what, a walk in the garden? James 2:10, angel.” He waggled his eyebrows.

Despite himself, Aziraphale laughed. If Crowley was quoting the Bible to try to get a rise out of him, he must be on the mend.

“Well, all right,” he said. “But just one, mind. I have to be back in time for Terce.” Or, well, perhaps he could beg off Terce. “Sext, at least.”

“Rest easy, angel, I’ll be sure to bring you back home on time,” said Crowley, in a tone that made all of Aziraphale’s blood rush to his face.

“Once a serpent,” he muttered, returning to his Chaucer as Crowley washed himself in the basin.

“Alright,” said Crowley, “I’m decent.”

Aziraphale turned around and smiled appreciatively. The demon had manifested himself a silk umber doublet with black trimmings, a matching silk cote-hardie with gold decorations, black hose, a carnelian ring, a red damask cloak, a belt, and black shoes with a buckle. It wasn’t fair that someone like Crowley, who was otherwise all elbows and knees, could look so dapper. “The colour suits you,” said Aziraphale, momentarily distracted, aware that he was speaking just to fill the silence. “Goes with your eyes. It’s very — very demonic, too. What’s the occasion?”

Crowley laughed, forked tongue slipping in and out of his mouth, and by God, it shouldn’t make Aziraphale’s stomach flip like that.

“Oh, I’m overdue for a few seductions, that’s all. You’ve got to look the part.” His smile did strange, very unangelic things to Aziraphale’s grace.

“Coming?”

And Aziraphale, Canterbury Tales quite forgotten, followed him out into the sunlight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’ve changed the time from evening to shortly after 6am (Prime), since (as I understand it) there would have been curfews and very little nightlife, particularly in a smaller city like Sicily.
> 
> For the Liturgy of the Hours, please see https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Liturgy_of_the_Hours
> 
> Corrections to my historical accuracy are welcome. Mediaeval Europe isn’t exactly my forte. ‘Research’ is from publicly available websites.


End file.
